


A Stitch In Time

by coffeeguru, MaryDragon



Series: The Pillars of Creation [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fire and Flame, Foreshadowing, Keep to the Stars, Sewing, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:26:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeguru/pseuds/coffeeguru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all of those who live and work in Thedas are warriors, mages, or thieves.  Some are just observers, thrown into the fray, unaware of their role.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so very lucky to be able to add this piece to the world that is the Pillars of Creation universe. Thank you, MaryDragon for being so generous as to be allow me to play in your sandbox!

The fucker came into the bar again. 

I watched him, his smug grin as he sidled up next to the dwarf who was always acting as though he owned the place. He probably did; the duster he wore was worth a fortune and there wasn’t much that shone like gold when it was woven into cloth.  They were probably perfectly nice assholes, but as soon as they entered the Hanged Man, no one could get a drink without lifting their shirt or starting a brawl, and at that you were as likely to get thrown out as a tankard.

My money was good.  Had the symbol of the city on it and everything.  I worked damn hard for it, too.  I had little enough time to spend in any tavern, and why I chose the rotting pisshole that was Lowtown’s pride and joy always eluded me.  

I was drawn to it.  Something repeatedly steered my feet to its scarred front door, bade me to step on its sticky floorboards.  I didn’t know what it was; maybe just a masochistic desire to drink lousy ale and watch drunkards have at each other either with fists or groping hands.  The entertainment was plentiful and free, and I didn’t have to do a thing except watch.  I never got involved. The closest I’d get to a fight was lifting my mug so its contents wouldn’t get lost on the floor.  It was a precious commodity when Tethras and Company came in, and I guarded it for all it was worth.

I curled up in my slightly darkened spot in the corner of the bar, feet up on the bench to avoid puddles of wet...well, I hoped it was beer, along with the mice that were all too happy to try and take what they could of your shoes for their nests. From there I could easily watch everything that was going on, every scene of the nightly play, and still keep my back to the wall.  It didn’t pay to be unaware in the City of Chains.  It would more than likely get you killed. At least from my viewing station I could sit back and watch the revelry and rowdiness unfold.

“You Tailor?”  The rough and slightly slurred voice tore me away from my focus on where the Bearded Marvel sat, denizens of the Hanged Man hanging on his every gesture as though he was speaking with the voice of the Maker.  I was fairly certain He didn’t use “shithead” as a descriptor for His children.  Then again, I was never the greatest scholar. I could have missed something along the way.

The man in front of me was...unkempt would be kind.  He looked as though he had been rolled a few times by the Rivaini that was leaning over the Champion’s table and challenging her seams. I had to admire the craftsmanship. A lesser piece would have long since given up in favor of full exposure.  I internally saluted its perseverance.

Fumes wafted off of him, both of alcohol and...less savory things.  There was at least a day’s growth of uneven beard in a shade darker than the shaggy brown hair on his head.  I recognized the glassy look, too.  He was deep in his cups.

“Who’s asking?”  I didn’t owe anyone anything, but that didn’t mean someone could decide otherwise, just for shits and giggles. Stranger and far more sinister things had happened in the city.

He blinked, as though trying to bring me, or the world, back into focus. “Are ye or not? Don’ waste m’time.”

“Seems you’re the one wasting mine.  I had a fine beer and a quiet corner, and now I have a quickly warming beer and space that’s become far too crowded for my liking.”

“Yer an arse.”

“That is as may be, but you haven’t gotten to the point yet, Serrah.  Tell me who wants to know and I’ll tell you who I am.”  I was no kind of fighter, but I pulled my knee up to my chest, so that I could grab the little dagger I kept stored in my boot...just in case.  Kirkwall was a dangerous city on the best of days, and I lingered in Lowtown after dark.  I wasn’t that big of a fool.

He tried to glare at me, but succeeded only in looking as though he was staring at the tip of his nose.  “Didn’ think it was goin’ t’be this much trouble,” he mumbled as much to himself as to me. “Shouldn’ have drunk t’earnin’s first.”  He seemed to finally remember he was with someone else that he was trying to intimidate and drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive height.

“I’ll save you the trouble of trying to remember where you were.  You were looking for Tailor. That does in fact happen to be me, for better or worse.  Now, what do you want?”  Over his shoulder the appointed Champion laughed uproariously at something the pirate woman said.  From the little I had heard from her, it was likely filthy...and hilarious.

“Huh? Oh.” Thinking was definitely not high on the man’s list of attributes. “Boss wants somethin’ made, says you’re the one t’do it.”

“I have a storefront; you could have gone there.  That’s what everyone else does.”  Whatever I was about to be slurringly propositioned was very likely not on the up and up.  It made very little sense to me; I wasn’t in a line of work that generally had a seedy underbelly involved.

“Boss is lookin’ for...a dress.  Says your t’tailor to make it.”  

I sighed, exaggeratedly, and propped my head on my knee.  “See, that’s the problem I always run into.  Just because my  _ name _ is Tailor doesn’t mean I  _ am _ one.”

He blinked a few times more, trying to figure out what I was saying.  “So...yer not a tailor?”

“Oh, I am.”  He opened his mouth to ask, but I stopped him. “But your boss wants a seamstress. There’s a difference.  A seamstress will make your clothes.  A tailor will fit them to you.”

“So...ye can’t make t’dress?”

I smiled broadly at him. “Oh no, I can.  I just wanted to clarify what your employer was looking for.”

He scowled.  “Yer lookin’ to get a beating, Mess’r.” 

“I’m not looking for anything.  You’re the one who came to bother me while I was enjoying a perfectly nice drink.”  The small group of adventurers that fell under the dwarf’s purview and protection moved to one of the larger tables in the inn.  A sandy-haired man with a rather haunted look had shown up at some point, as had a pair of elves, one silver and permanently glowering, and the other doe-eyed with something that could only be called innocence emanating from her.  I looked back at the lumbering idiot in front of me. “What kind of dress does your boss want?”

“One for a wedding.  Pretty lacy white thing.” He started padding his pockets, eventually pulling out a severely rumpled and slightly stained drawing.  “Looks like this.”

I touched it tentatively; it looked like it had been to several unsavory places, not unlike its bearer.  The paper was old, as was the design.  Cut, draping, decolletage, even the lace patterns were from a different time.  “This is...I can make something reminiscent of it; but it’s horribly outdated-”

“‘E says this is what he wants, an’ he’ll pay.  Double for fast work.”

“And he had you come into a bar to proposition me?” I narrowed my eyes at him.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothin’.  Boss wants a dress.  Says it’s for keeping ‘er alive.  ‘E lost ‘is wife years back. Hasn’t been teh same man since.”

Frankly, he sounded a bit unhinged. But, if his coin was good, I honestly didn’t give a damn what he wanted to do with the dress, or for that matter  _ in _ the dress if that was what he wanted.  I traced the lines on the paper with a fingertip.  What it came down to was...it was a challenge.  And while I liked money-it was beautiful and could buy me nice things-I  _ loved _ a challenge.  I looked up at the highly inebriated servant of indeterminate role.  “Tell your boss he has a deal.  Half up front,” I quoted a number that was disgustingly high, “and half on delivery.  He’ll have it in a week.”

Digging again in his none-too-clean pockets he pulled out a purse that landed heavily on the desk.  “Should be ‘nough there,” he replied. “More if ye need it.  ‘E said whatever you need t’get the job done.”

I needed a miracle to find the necessary fabric let alone the time to make the dress, but I had shot my mouth off like an ass and had to make do. I would; I always did.  But it didn’t mean I hadn’t just created a nightmare for myself.  The sound of the money hitting the table was encouraging, however. It seemed like good motivation.  

“So how am I supposed to deliver this?” I pointed to the paper in case he had forgotten what we were talking about.  “Is there an address in Hightown that I should bring it to or-”

“Ye bring it here,” he said flatly, some of the alcohol clearing the way for cognitive thought.  “Ye make it an’ I get it in a week.”

I nodded.  Of course something felt off about the whole situation, but I’d be damned if I could figure out the harm in making a dress for some eccentric and possibly dangerous noble with too much money, too few hobbies, and an inability to let go of the past.  There was no reason to turn it down, and no matter how much my gut said to refuse, it also liked to tell me when it was hungry on a regular basis, and money was good for filling that void.  “Done.”  I took the sack, which was dubiously clean, and shoved it into one my larger (and more forgiving at being cleaned) pouches.  I stood, and went to drain the last of my too-warm beer before looking forward to another late night.

“Ye don’ show up, I’ll come get it meself,” he said menacingly.  He swayed a bit as he spoke which took away a bit of the ferocity of the statement.

“I’m sure you will.  I don’t back out of deals. You’ll have it.”  I waited for him to move, which he did only after a few moments more where he glared in my general direction.  

Making sure not to brush up against him and whatever part of the sewers he had brought with him, I made my way to the door, looking back once more as laughter again swept the room.  Tethras caught my eye and gave me a quick wink and a raised pint.   _ He _ had sent the ruffian my way.  Which also meant he was aware of everything that was happening, one eye on the group surrounding him, one eye on me. 

I had wondered how exactly he had known how to find me among all of the drunken revelers in the Hanged Man.  Made sense that Tethras had sent them my way.  Every time he came in for a new shirt he promised me new business.  Seems he had finally delivered.  I’d have to thank him the next time, but possibly put some hygiene requirements on future referrals.  I headed out into the night, the warm fetid smell of the tavern replaced with the warm fetid smell of Lowtown.

 

*********

 

I told him a week. It took me four days. I think at one point I fell asleep leaning over my mannequin with the pins still foolishly in my mouth. It was a small miracle I didn't swallow them and end my days writhing in agony as the tools of my profession became the instruments of my death.

I had bled for this piece.  Years of stitching, methodical, meditative movement of the thread through layers of fabric had built up the callouses on my fingertips to the point where I felt little pain, could puncture layers of skin with needles and not bat an eye.  Oh, but this dress drew blood.  If I had been a mage, the Templars would have had no choice but to make me Tranquil or kill me for the amount of my life that dotted the dress.  A bit of saliva removed the tangible marks, but I was still a part of what had been my greatest triumph to date.  

Even on the lifeless, headless model it gleamed, told me that I had made something of significance. Lace framed the neckline, opaque enough to be modest but sheer enough to give a mere hint of the skin that it was covering, a temptation just out of sight. Bare shoulders made a contrast of full sleeves which ended in delicate flares that would leave only fingertips visible, modesty and suggestion in a single cut of cloth, hinting at the woman who waited behind the dress.

Delicate quilting criss-crossed the bodice, each stitch laid by hand as no one had a fabric that would make an acceptable substitute. The silver thread gleamed in the firelight, gently, drawing the eye to the wearer’s curves, past the lacing that allowed for the wearer’s shape to be perfected with the right amount of cinching, to the skirts that completed the sculpture I had given birth to.

Like the petals of a rosebud just shy of its first bloom, the fabric flowed from waist to ankle in overlapping layers, brocade under the finest linen I could obtain, and those under narrow panniers of lace that matched the top of the dress. It hugged the hips, narrow but not constrictive as the fabric fell to the floor. 

As I stood, unsteadily, staring at the work in front of me, I wondered, possibly out loud, I was that exhausted, how such a piece had gone out of style.  It was as though people had forgotten the beauty of nature, the power in poetry.  The dress told a story, drew you in like a moth to the flame, promised you bliss when you slipped it on, and once more when it was slipped off of you.

I no longer wondered why my patron desired to bring it back to life.  The woman who chose the gown understood its significance, and to lose someone with that sense would be to have a light extinguished.

I was almost loathe to turn it over to someone who had plans to lock it away, keep it so that no one else would be able to share in its story.  But it didn’t belong to me; almost nothing that I created did.  I made them, and I gave them to the ones who had asked for them, to do with as they pleased.  

It chapped my ass a little every time Tethras had to come in for another shirt because his previous one had become so filled with holes and weighted down with blood and ichor that it had become useless.  It was a good thing he was charming, or I may have started refusing to dress him, no matter how good his gold was.  I had limits, and he tested mine.

My legs wouldn’t support me any longer, and I stumbled to one of the old but functional wing-backed chairs I kept in front of the fire.  I didn’t have a blanket, and I would be as sore as Andraste roasted ass in the morning, but I didn’t care.  I closed my eyes while afterimages of the gleaming dress flashed in the darkness.

 

*********

_ In the dream, she was already gone.  He was the only one who didn’t realize that true and final death was only moments away.  He thought he had resurrected his love, but instead he had only created agony for other women.   _

_ She wouldn’t have wanted him like this.  She would have run away screaming at just the hint that he would do something as monstrous as sacrifice others for her.  Because it wasn’t truly for her, it was for himself, and he knew it. As the flashing, furious eyes of the Champion bore down on him and he felt his own life ripped from his body, limbs torn from their sockets with the raging inferno of Garrett Hawke’s magic forcing him apart, he had only one thought through the pain before oblivion claimed him. _

_ “Forgive me, my love.” _

*********

 

I started awake. The fire had long since burnt down to the embers and I was freezing in front of the empty hearth.  As I stood, slowly, painstakingly, I cursed whoever decided that getting older was a good idea.  

The nightmare brushed at the edges of my mind, begging me to remember it, to look at it and see what was there with my eyes opened.  But I knew I didn’t want to; I had no desire to go running into the Void fully aware of the idiocy of my decision.  I could handle a few more sleepless nights.  I didn’t think I could deal with what waited around the corner.

Whatever it was that hid in the shadows kept me from looking at the dress the same way. Where it had gleamed in the light before, after that night it seemed to pull the light in, devour it. I thought I had made a masterpiece. Instead I created a monster of silk and satin and shattered dreams.  I wanted to burn the fucking thing.  But something stilled my hand. Likely my own pride.  That, and not wanting to deal with a crazy noble and his irritatingly drunken thug on a regular basis.  I liked my pisshole of a city, and I had no plans to leave it unless I was driven out.

Shaken by...something, and unable to stay in the same place as that damn dress, I made my way out to the edges of the city.  It was still dark enough that the servants were asleep before heading up towards Hightown and late enough that even the thieves had hit the end of their night shift of purse-snatching and robbery.

The Hanged Man was still going strong.  It never seemed to become truly quiet there, only slightly less rowdy, and slightly less filled with the assortment of colorful characters that made up Kirkwall’s underbelly.  

My corner was...occupied.  I was about to launch into a tirade that I hoped would drive out the intruder until I realized that it was the dwarf.  “I thought I’d see you sooner or later.”

“So you decided to use your ass to keep my seat warm?” I signaled to the server to bring two; I wasn’t sure how far he was into his first beer, but if he didn’t want it, I’d handle two without a problem.  It had been that kind of a night.

He made a show of leaning back against the wall in a fair approximation of my normal posture.  “Don’t flatter yourself.  I thought I’d check out the view from back here.” He looked lazy, nonchalant, but I could see that his eyes were on me, sizing me up, always a thought or a plan behind them.  “I can see why you chose it.”

“And you can see why I’d like to keep it,” I replied.  The drinks showed up, and I slid one over to him, took mine in hand.  It was cold against my lips, my tongue, and I raised my eyebrows over the lip.  “I knew you got special treatment,” I said, after I had taken a long drink.  It even tasted like real ale.

“I have no idea what you mean.”  He swallowed down the last of his first and started on the new foaming mug.  He drank it like it was his normal brew, which I suspected it was.  The lucky bastard.  

“I’m going to have you start paying me in beer  _ and  _ coin.”  I hadn’t had something that tasted that cool and foaming and refreshing in...I couldn’t remember how long.  I gestured with the drink.  “This is almost worth its weight in gold.  I’d love to keep my fridge stocked with this.”

He tilted his head to the side.  “Since when did you start speaking Qunari?”

“What?  I don’t speak ox.  You’re crazy, old man.”

He shook his head.  “Well that word you said sounded like something that would come out the Arishok’s mouth.  If it’s not Qunari, it’s damn close.”

I thought back over what I had said.  “I said I’d keep my….” I tried to pull the word out again and couldn’t.  It was something, like those other shadows I wanted to avoid, and it was like grasping at smoke when I attempted to reach out to it.  “I have no idea.  Must be something I picked up in passing.”  I finally gave up on the idea that he was going to give me back my spot, and sat across from him.  I still kept sight of the door, so that we essentially had to sit parallel to one another.

“Now stop feeding me a line of nugshit, Varric, and tell me why you’re really in my seat.  It’s not to check out the view, it’s not to get me to make you more shirts, though now that you’re back in town with the Beard, I suspect it’s only a matter of time until the blood stains will get too much for you and I’ll have another order.”

“You’re too observant for your own good, Needles.”  That one had been an obvious one for him to choose, but I let it go.  He had nicknames for everyone, and there was a certain sense of belonging when he had assigned it to me.  I had to wonder if he actually knew my first name.    
“I wanted to see how that job worked out from the other night.  I did as much vetting as I could before sending him your way, but there’s only so much a dwarf from Lowtown can do.”

“Remember the first line of shit I told you stop feeding me?”  I swiped a hand across the table and took his mug, drinking deep from it and making a show of sighing in contentment.  “That’s your punishment for trying it again.”  I didn’t close my eyes, didn’t let the haunting memory creep up on me, the one that had chased me all the way down to the Hanged Man in the middle of the night.  “It’s fine.  Strange, but I regularly work with nobility...and Orlesians.  Nothing can really surprise me anymore.”

He signaled for two more drinks, looking slightly chagrined.  “Still, something doesn’t seem right about it, and I’ve been kicking my own ass for days for not being more thorough.  Let me know if there are any problems.” Varric smiled, taking some of the seriousness out of his words.  “I’d hate to have to find someone new to make my shirts. It took years before I found you.  I don’t want to break in another tailor.”

I nodded my thanks as the next drink was brought over, water sending beads of condensation trailing down the sides of the wood, the moisture cool and refreshing on my skin.  I spread a drop between my index and thumb, reveling in the smooth wetness, the reduction of friction between my fingers caused by its existence. “I’m not going anywhere, Varric,” I said quietly.  “Kirkwall is my home, and I’ll be damned if anyone is going to get me out of here before I’m good and ready to leave.”  I looked back up at him.  “Besides, I know that I have someone keeping an eye on me, and I appreciate it.”

“Just drink your beer, Marian.”  

“How did you-”

“I pay attention.  Like I know you didn’t come down here for the enthralling company, though it’s a bonus.  You’ve got that look Hawke gets when the past comes back to bite him when he’s not looking.”

“Why in the Void are you being so damn nice to me?”

“I told you, I need shirts.”  I couldn’t help but smile.  “And there’s a story to you.  I’ll figure it out someday.  Meanwhile I’ll ply you with drinks and coin until I wear you down.”

“There’s  _ no _ story.  I’m just-”

“A seamstress who came in on a ship out of nowhere, set up shop in the right place at the right time, and settled into Kirkwall as if it had always been her home.  Sure there’s no story there.  And I’m Andraste’s reincarnation.”

“Then she's shorter than I thought,” I said in response, refusing to rise to the bait. There was nothing more to me, I was insistent upon it, but I knew no amount of protesting would keep him from prying.  So I took another deep swallow, not saying anything more, and he took the hint, proceeding to tell me about the latest escapade that he and the Champion had been up to, embellishing more than a little. I finally felt sleep come to reclaim me, and took him up on his offer of a bed somewhere other than my shop where the darkness and the otherness waited. I would have to face it, but in the morning, when I could have my defenses ready for whatever laid ahead.

“Goodnight, Varric.  Thank you for the company, and the ale.  Mostly the ale.”

“Anytime, Needles.”

My night was blessedly dreamless.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in the darkness of the mind is not for the faint of heart. Tragedy comes in many forms, and denial is a solid defense against its encroachment.

“You look like absolute shit, Varric.”

He looked up at me blearily.  “I think I’ve earned the right.” Standing on the pedestal in my shop, shirtless, I could see the bruises that were starting to yellow on his skin, the scrapes and cuts that were new peppered over scars that testified to his lifestyle like the rings of a tree.

I held the offending garment with one hand, a critical eye trying to discern if it could be saved or not. I was doubtful that even my skills could bring it back to life.  I was willing to try.  The man needed a shirt; people would faint if they were exposed to the chest without a barrier.  “Want to talk about it?”

I didn’t know why I offered.  I wasn’t his confessor; I wasn’t even his barber.  He had no particular reason to confide in me.  But I hated the haunted look in his eyes, so the words left my lips before I could think to keep them bound and gagged behind a layer of professionalism.

He hesitated.  Something I had never seen Tethras do when he was given the opportunity and the audience to tell a story.  It had to be bad.  Earth shattering.  Painful on a whole new level.

“Hawke lost his mother.”  That seemed sad, depressing possibly, but hardly on par with the level of pain that he was wordlessly conveying.

“That’s...really awful.” It was, but there was more.  I was sure of it.  And afraid of it.

“Yeah.” He sighed.  “Look, if you’re going to repair that, can I get down off of display while you work?  And if you’re not, can I have my shirt back in the interim?”

I gestured with my head to the chair by the fire.  “Be my guest.  Let me grab my supplies, and I’ll join you.”

I had my precious sewing kit stowed behind the counter, tucked in a darkened corner.  I had gathered each piece over the years, exotic instruments of my craft, priceless, at least in my eyes.  I took that, and on a whim a bottle of brandy and two glasses.  I decanted before I sat, handing one tumbler to the dwarf before pouring one of my own.  He eyed my serving.  “Should you operate on my clothes under the influence?”

I smirked.  “I can sew better three sheets to the wind than an Orlesian dressmaker on her best day with the latest silk shipment at her fingertips.  I’m good.”  To demonstrate, I tossed back the glass, letting the burn slither down my throat, before pouring another.  “I won’t let you leave here naked.” I threaded my needle and began to stitch.  “Now, you were saying?”

“Yeah.  His mother.  Nice lady, Leandra, if too worried about others’ perspectives.” He closed his eyes over the glass, and I watched him as the needle pierced the fabric over and over again, the rhythm as familiar to me as the beating of my heart.  “She didn’t deserve….”  Again he hesitated, and finally his sherry-colored eyes looked up at mine. “Necromancy.”

That stopped the needle against my skin, a small bead of blood forming.  I rubbed it into the collar of the shirt.  If you bleed for a piece, it needed to be marked as such.  “Fuck,” I said, absently stroking my injured finger with my thumb.  “Tell me you killed the bastard.”

“You can bet your shapely human ass we did.  Hawke...he almost ripped the sick shit in half with his bare hands. He’d...it wasn’t all her.  The body wasn’t...it was pieces of...fuck, it was awful.  And he’d stuffed her into this dress....”

 _You_ are _coming back to me, my love.  The time is almost complete, and you and I will be as one, as we were meant to be, as_ you _were meant to be.  You look as beautiful as you did on our wedding day._

_Greying brown hair with a gentle wave was brushed back from the forehead of a woman whose eyes glowed sickeningly with magic.  She was slack-jawed, head moving almost independent of the body, and the stitching on her neck was a garish contrast to the lily-white beauty of the gown she was wearing, high-necked with lace, sleeves off the shoulders, bodice quilted with silver-_

“Needles. Tailor. Marian, are you in there?”  The dwarf’s husky voice pulled me back from the sight that had taken my concentration.

I shook my head to clear the haunting vision, willing it back into the recesses of my mind where it couldn’t bother me, couldn’t make me see things I didn’t want to see, know things I shouldn’t know, _couldn’t_ know.  “Sorry.  It’s...Maker.” I could feel the horror and disgust visible on my face.  “How is Hawke even still standing? If he is.”

“Stubbornness.” The laugh was humorless.  “I thought I was belligerent.  Garrett Hawke is the most foolishly tenacious creature to walk Thedas.  And I’ve met Flemeth.”

 _Horns of hair and a wicked smile, timeless wisdom behind her eyes, holding secrets of the uni-_ NO.

_You’ll need to remember at some point._

_Fuck ‘need.’_

Varric ran a hand over his face, looking to regain some composure. “Thanks for the drink...and the ear, Needles.”  He took the proffered shirt, slipping it on and running a finger along one of the repaired holes. He let out a slow whistle. “You’ve got a gift.”

“Lots of practice, lots of blood, nothing special, really.  But you’re welcome anytime, Varric.  I’ve always got an open chair and an open bottle. Both are necessary in my profession.”  I followed him to the door.

“Who knew that ‘seamstress’ was synonymous with ‘counselor?’ I’ll probably take you up on the offer at some point.  Maker’s ass sometimes I need a break from the menagerie.  Nice to find someone decent in the shithole that’s home sweet home.  Besides,” he added with a grin, some of his humor returning, “I know that I’ll get that story out of you sometime.  The liquor might help.”

“There’s _no_ story, Tethras. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this.”  He gave me one of those looks that clearly said that he wasn’t buying what he thought was bullshit, and waved slightly as he went out the door.  I turned the lock behind him, watched him head back towards Lowtown, losing him in the shadows, before falling to me knees and vomiting on the floor, heaving until my stomach was empty and my sides ached from exertion.  

The dress. _My_ dress, the piece that was the culmination of a lifetime of skill and practice brought to glorious life.  And it had helped to kill the Champion’s mother.   _I had helped to kill her._

The thought had me retching again, hot tears down my face burning my skin as they mingled with the contents of my stomach on the floor.  

What had I done?

And why did I know?

After I could breathe again, I stood unsteadily and grabbed the bottle of brandy, using it to clean the wretched taste of bile out of my mouth.  I spit into the fire and-

 _My skin split open, burning pain from the inside out, the layer of fat bubbling and popping like bacon as it cooked in the heat of an oven that had once been my home.  The clothes had melted to my body, coating me in a second layer, an exoskeleton of liquid agony.  I was dead, I knew it, but the horror wouldn’t stop, and I knew I was screaming, and the flames licked at my body and I_ knew _the pressure behind my eyes was the preparation for their rupturing and the pounding in my head was telling me I was going to-_

The glass bottle cracked in my hand, the pain of the glass biting into the soft flesh of my palm a grounding, sudden reminder of where I was, who I was.

Tailor.  Marian Tailor.  Seamstress. Nothing special. No one special.  I sewed clothes, I lived in Kirkwall, I was from...somewhere that was not the City of Chains.  It didn’t matter.  All that mattered was the here, and the now, and the fact that there was _nothing_ unusual about me.  The visions were just nightmares, horrible mem-horrible thoughts that my mind conjured up, probably after reading too many of Varric’s serials.

Everything was coincidental.  My life was not out of the ordinary.  Shit was weird in Thedas. That was the norm, the status quo.  If I saw visions of a dead woman I had never met _before_ she was dead...that was just something that happened.  Maybe some of the Templar's lyrium was getting into the groundwater and making me a bit crazy.  It was possible.  Anything was possible.

Except the thought that there was more to me than it appeared. I couldn’t be more, wouldn’t be.

_You promised me peace._

I wrapped my hand in one of the clean rags I kept on hand, and slowly cleaned up the mess I had made.  I needed the evidence to disappear, like I needed those memor-those _dreams_ to vanish into the darkness of my mind where I refused to tread, would not go.  Nothing good dwelt there, nothing I should look at, and that’s where they needed to be filed away.  

Forever.

I threw the dirty rags into the fire, but I turned away as they met the flame.

I couldn’t watch them burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment on Tailor and her existence. She's a bit different for me, and she's reluctant to come out to play, but I can't resist Mary's world, and the seamstress knows her story needs to be told.


	3. Chapter 3

Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

Oh, yes, if it was only that simple.  Thanks, cliche. I really appreciate your unsolicited and objective opinion of my very subjective life.

Life is death, and waiting for death. Life is pain, and suffering and loss and heartache, and the knowledge that no matter what you do, it is  _ not the right thing. _ Because though it may feel right at the time, and though the options laid out in front of you may look pristine, perfect, indefatigable, there will be someone, somewhere, who is negatively affected by your choice.  And they will be devastated and you may never even know that they are, that your decision ruined them, took something precious away from them, changed their life utterly.

No decision you make is unselfish.  It may be altruistic, it may be the best decision for the largest number of people, but even one that ends in your sacrifice...you ultimately do for yourself.  To make yourself feel better, to take yourself out of the equation, to make life easier on someone else...but that’s  _ your _ thinking, your self-exoneration. You’re trying to keep yourself from feeling bad.  

And being selfish isn’t a bad thing, necessarily.  It’s not that you’re doing something wrong; your decision can still be for the better, but don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re doing it purely for others.  It’s impossible. It’s not human to do so.

Trust me, I know.  Lying on the floor, screaming as the pain intensified beyond what a human could bear, should bear, tears instantly drying against skin that was bursting and peeling away, smelling my own flesh and hair burning, I had no fucking thought other than  _ help me. _ Not ‘help everyone else, leave me writhing in my bombed out shell of a living room in agony, I'll be just peachy,’ not ‘oh I hope the neighbors got away.’ No.  It was ‘God I’m fucking dying please save me or kill me or let me die’ and ‘Jesus how am I still conscious let the pain stop why am I not dead and why do I have to feel this what did I do  _ wrong, _ ’ and finally just crying and whimpering and the inability to keep screaming because my vocal chords had burned away, scalded by the inferno that was engulfing me and in the back of the mind that was still too sharp for someone whose blood was boiling thinking that I had been  _ lied to _ about smoke inhalation helping to take the worst of the pain away, of unconsciousness claiming you before the fire did its job and ate your flesh and left you husk and shell and bone and prayers to a missing god.

And then I was  _ answered. _ The world stopped.  Everything...stopped. Except the pain.  I wondered later if that was deliberate, to suspend me in that moment of agony between life and death, facing my mortality in a state of excruciating limbo that could potentially go on forever, to help push me towards the choice that was wanted of me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here on time,” she said, her voice truly remorseful, but a bit distant, as though she had missed an important appointment instead of catching me before the bombs went off.  “I thought I had more time.”

I couldn’t see her through the haze of pain.  My eyes were throbbing, and I was beyond vision at that point. I didn’t know how I could still hear through the pounding of my heart and the shattered whimpers and grunts of my cries in my ruined throat. I didn’t know who she was, what she wanted.  I just wanted it to  _ stop, please God stop, I can’t take more let my heart stop I’m so sorry...oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I confess to my own sins because of your just- _

“Oh Child. I’ve done this to you, left you like this.  I can take this away.  You can come somewhere safe, where you won’t hurt.  I have need for you.   _ He  _ has need for you to be a part of what is to happen, so many plans that need your touch.”  She brushed against me and I wanted to scream, but where her fingers grazed my skin, there was relief.  Blessed sweet release from the torture that was in every other fiber of my being. “Or I can let you go, you can pass on.  Either way, I will not allow you to suffer any more.” Her hand was at my throat and I could once more feel the coolness of healing.  “What would you prefer?”

I  _ was _ fire by that point, a hundred thousand pinpoints of flame that all lusted to consume me.  And all I wanted was for the hurting to stop, and I wanted to die and see what was beyond and  _ I wonder if Grandda is waiting for me; we could do another puzzle, play another card game, and no one would interrupt us.  _ But my voice and my humanity betrayed me.

“Live.”

Selfishness. The basic animalistic desire for self-preservation bade my lips move, took my decision away, made me weak in my wanting.

I couldn’t see her smile, but I could hear it in her voice. “Of course.” And then the pain vanished. The actual physical pain disappeared as if it had never been.

But it had.

And I could still feel it, roasting my skin, stealing my breath, making me writhe in misery, driving me mad with its presence.  It would always be there, under the surface, invisible, burning and tearing and  _ destroying _ me.  I whimpered, wanted to keep screaming but I didn’t have the strength, even though I could see, could  _ see,  _ because she had given me back my vision, that my skin was whole and hale.  It didn’t matter.  It would be aflame forever.  The smell of my inevitable death, hair and skin and fat and organs oozing and bursting...that would never leave me. It clogged my nostrils, filled my mouth and throat even as I lay before a woman of incomparable beauty, dressed in white and benevolence. 

“Pl-please,” I stuttered, pled, begged.  “Make it stop….” I ended on a keening as more spasms wracked my body, shuddering pain along every nerve. I was going to die without a mark on me.

“Oh my dear,” she said.  “Is this what you wish?  Truly?”

“Yesssss,” I let out on a hiss of breath, unable to think, barely able to speak.

“Then wish it gone,  _ will _ it gone, and you will be free.”

“I….”  _ Make the pain stop, God please make it stop take it away I don’t wantthisanymoresavemeplease- _

  
And I could breathe again.


	4. Chapter 4

I blinked a few times, staring up at the sun that was just a bit too bright, too warm on my skin. The slight movement of the ground under me brought me back to my senses. There was a gentle sway of the ship as it passed through the narrow passage that was fed from the Waking Sea into the harbour, and I saw the stone of the City of Chains for the first time.

There was some vague remembrance that I was running from...something. Or was I running to something? It didn’t seem to make a difference, and I really didn’t care. It was a feeling that had increased since leaving Starkhaven. Of course, the city had been so smothering that it wasn’t surprising that I wanted to leave. Gilded hypocritical piety chafed my ass, even though it paid well. I figured I might be able to at least breathe in Kirkwall. From what I understood, there was more tarnish than gilt there.

“You have someone waiting for you, Messere?”

The voice was warm, I thought, warm like the sun, sliding lightly over syllables as he spoke. It came from one of the other passengers; I hadn’t caught his name. As far as I knew or cared, he was just another traveller, refugee, seeker of sanctuary behind the edifice that stood so imposingly before us. I couldn’t pull my eyes from the scene in front of me, but I came into enough of myself that I could answer. “No, no one’s waiting for me. I’ll just be one of the crowd.”

He might have snorted at that answer, I wasn’t sure. “One of the crowd will get your purse cut...and your throat if you’re not careful.”

“You’re talking from experience?” He had more of my attention, and I hazarded a glance over at him. Average height, average build, slightly shorter than I was, with the golden tone to his skin that spoke of a life used to being outside. There was a certain hardness to his features, not the windburned look of a sailor...more of a fighter who had seen too much and let it color his view of the world, write its effects upon his face. The tightness in his neatly trimmed and bearded jaw, the hint of darkness behind eyes that reflected our surroundings, walnut brown and sunlight gold, both hinted at a history that held blood and nightmares. “You don’t look like the type who lets his purse strings out of his sight.”

His eyes crinkled up at the corners in genuine amusement. “You’d be right there. I’m more the type that would take yours...just to teach you a lesson in caution.” He tossed a pouch at me and I caught it, fumbling a bit as it hit my fingers. It was mine, of course, and he made me forget to be in awe of the storied city we were sailing into.

“Really? Was this necessary?” I looked at the slices he had made on the thongs of the pouch. At least they were clean cuts. I could restitch them without too much effort. But the fact that I had to make any effort filled me with consternation, and I’m sure it showed on my face.

“Absolutely.” He had a laugh in his voice and it was frustrating even as it made me want to respond with one of my own. “You’ll keep a closer eye on your coin now, and I won’t have to rescue you from the darker side of Kirkwall, which to be fair is most of it...for at least a week or so.” Mirth chased most of the shadows away from his eyes. I thought briefly about darkening one of them with my fist, but resisted the urge.

“Is this a typical form of introduction where you’re from? Theft and veiled insults about my ability to take care of myself?”

The smile was still a hairsbreadth from coming fully to light on his face. “Usually I don’t bother. Someone has to capture my interest before I take the time to invest in their well-being.”

I sighed. His good humor was infectious, and I was trying very hard to remain immune. “I’m so very glad that I’ve shown up on your radar.”

“Pardon?” His expression changed slightly, and he quirked his head to the side.

I blinked. “Never mind. I hope you don’t expect me to fall at your feet in gratefulness for your mighty deed.”

“Not at all! I do what I do to spread a little knowledge around, make the world a better place. Get a rise out of people I find fascinating.”

“I think I’m sorry that I’m fascinating,” I mumbled, but the bastard made me color slightly. Compliments were something I wasn’t used to, even oddly backhanded ones. I looked back down at the pouch in my hand. Definitely an-

“It’s Arrin, not Asshole, in case you were trying to suss out a proper name for me.”

That startled a laugh out of me. “Fine, you win! You have my undivided attention, Ass-Arrin. What could you possibly find fascinating about someone you haven't spoken more than a handful of words to before today?”

“You look at everything,” he replied simply. “The mundane you watch in rapture, as though you'd never seen it before, and yet you're intimately familiar with the more fantastic elements. Magic doesn't startle you, you don't view it with fear or trepidation. But you look at each person as though they’re the visage of the Maker Himself, and the land as though it’s the bosom of flaming Andraste. I’ve never seen the like.”

I could feel my eyebrow raise at his description and shivered a bit at the epithet. “You don’t pull a punch, do you? No dancing around an issue and a bit of a poet added in for flair.”

“What do you see in that mind of yours?”

 _Fire. Flame. Burning. End of every-_ “I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, my voice likely sharper than it needed to be. “I sew. I see the possibilities in every outfit, the best fit for each figure. I know where things go wrong and how they can be made right. That’s all. There’s nothing special, just years of training.”

Nothing. Special. I needed to believe that. Needed him to. I didn’t know why, but it was essential.

“And I’m just a simple soldier,” he said with an air of total disbelief. “But, if that’s the way you wish to be, I will not pry into your secrets, Messere.”

“Tailor,” I said without thinking. “My name’s Tailor.” It was just a name, a common one where I was fr-a common one, and I didn’t think it would make a bit of difference if he knew it or not. He and I would part ways and disappear into the crowds in Kirkwall, strangers once more. And good riddance. Friendship was something I could scarce afford.

His smile was sudden and bright. “Tailor. And you sew. Clever, whoever set you down the path you’re following. Well, Tailor, have you need of me, I will be at your service in the City of Chains. Simply send word through the barkeep at the Hanged Man.” He put his hand over his breast, and bowed slightly.

The ship slid into its slip, and the hands made short work of tying her to the dock and setting the gangway to allow us to depart off the port side. “I’ll keep it in mind,” I replied, trying to be dismissive. But I knew I wouldn’t forget, would tuck away that bit of information for a rainy day. I looked up at the cloudless sky.

I hoped it never rained in Kirkwall.

**Author's Note:**

> **From MaryDragon: I had very little to do with this. I'm listed as an author only so that this can get added to Pillars of Creation. Coffee is a genius and a saint and this is all hers.**


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